A Book of Irish Verse - LightNovelsOnl.com
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What poet now, when wisdoms fail, Another theme shall dare-- The Nameless, and remove the veil Which hides it everywhere?
_John Eglinton_
THAT
What is that beyond thy life, And beyond all life around, Which, when thy quick brain is still, Nods to thee from the stars?
Lo, it says, thou hast found Me, the lonely, lonely one.
_Charles Weekes_
THINK
Think, the ragged turf-boy urges O'er the dusty road his a.s.ses; Think, on sea-sh.o.r.e far the lonely Heron wings along the sand;
Think, in woodland under oak-boughs Now the streaming sunbeam pa.s.ses; And bethink thee thou art servant To the same all-moving hand.
_Charles Weekes_
TE MARTYRUM CANDIDATUS
Ah, see the fair chivalry come, the companions of Christ!
White Hors.e.m.e.n, who ride on white horses, the Knights of G.o.d!
They, for their Lord and their Lover who sacrificed All, save the sweetness of treading, where he first trod!
These through the darkness of death, the dominion of night, Swept, and they woke in white places at morning tide: They saw with their eyes, and sang for joy of the sight, They saw with their eyes the Eyes of the Crucified.
Now, whithersoever He goeth, with Him they go: White Hors.e.m.e.n, who ride on white horses, oh fair to see!
They ride, where the Rivers of Paradise flash and flow, White Hors.e.m.e.n, with Christ their Captain: for ever He!
_Lionel Johnson_
THE CHURCH OF A DREAM
Sadly the dead leaves rustle in the whistling wind, Around the weather-worn gray church, low down the vale: The Saints in golden vesture shake before the gale; The glorious windows shake, where still they dwell enshrined; Old Saints, by long dead, shrivelled hands, long since designed: There still, although the world autumnal be, and pale, Still in their golden vesture the old saints prevail; Alone with Christ, desolate else, left by mankind.
Only one ancient Priest offers the sacrifice, Murmuring holy Latin immemorial: Swaying with tremulous hands the old censer full of spice, In gray, sweet incense clouds; blue, sweet clouds mystical: To him, in place of men, for he is old, suffice Melancholy remembrances and vesperal.
_Lionel Johnson_
WAYS OF WAR
A terrible and splendid trust Heartens the host of Inisfail: Their dream is of the swift sword-thrust, A lightning glory of the Gael.
Croagh Patrick is the place of prayers, And Tara the a.s.sembling place: But each sweet wind of Ireland bears The trump of battle on its race.
From Dursey Isle to Donegal, From Howth to Achill, the glad noise Rings: and the heirs of glory fall, Or victory crowns their fighting joys.
A dream! a dream! an ancient dream!
Yet, ere peace come to Inisfail, Some weapons on some field must gleam, Some burning glory fire the Gael.
That field may lie beneath the sun, Fair for the treading of an host: That field in realms of thought be won, And armed minds do their uttermost:
Some way, to faithful Inisfail, Shall come the majesty and awe Of martial truth, that must prevail, To lay on all the eternal law.
_Lionel Johnson_
THE RED WIND
Red Wind from out the East: Red wind of blight and blood!
Ah, when wilt thou have ceased Thy bitter, stormy flood?
Red Wind from over sea, Scourging our holy land!
What angel loosened thee Out of his iron hand?
Red Wind! whose word of might Winged thee with wings of flame?
O fire of mournful night!
What is thy Master's name?
Red Wind! who bade thee burn, Branding our hearts? Who bade Thee on and never turn, Till waste our souls were laid?
Red Wind! from out the West Pour Winds of Paradise: Winds of eternal rest, That weary souls entice.
Wind of the East! Red Wind!
Thou scorchest the soft breath Of Paradise the kind: Red Wind of burning death!
